Learn to Live Again
by Kaen
Summary: "And when you expect the angels to rush out and embrace you, sweeping you to heaven's gate in gentle arms, you are greeted with darkness..."
1. More of an Object than a Child

Learn to Live Again

Chapter One: More of an Object than a Child

By Kaen

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The scarlet dawn awoke slowly, extending her rested arms across the sky in a lethargic stretch. Her rising was greeted by the cool clouds of morning, stained shining gold, royal purple, and radiant pink by her infectious glow. In honor of the mistress on morning's arrival, the sky yielded it coat of midnight ebony and shed it instead for a delicate veil of the palest tones of blue and indigo, hovering just above the crimson mist. A light blanket of fog was bestowed upon the earth, bathing the life below in moisture while the dew that had formed on the vegetation during the warm night began to conjure into small assemblies of the sweetest water. Rapidly growing too large for their host to support, they began to flow to the ends of the petals and leaves, dripping away in such an order that they seemed strung together by some invisible thread that had spaced the individual drops apart with an expert precision. 

The first bird burst into its joyous song, reveling in the opportunity to present the Lady Morning its solo in praise of her glorious rising that was completely unmarred by the noises that would occur during the day. The rush of the vehicles on the road, the chattering voices of humans, the shrill shriek of sirens; no, all were silent now. It was only the pleasant chirping of a single bird perched high in the branches of a lone cherry blossom tree, which had long since withered in the heat of summer. Waking to the cries of its companion, another bird joined into the song and it became a duet. Then another joined, and then yet another. Soon the morning was alive with the cheerful hymn and it was then that the golden sun peaked over the horizon, its light banishing the silver crescent moon from its view. The serenity of the new day remained as so for only a few minutes, its countenance like a sculpture of glass that was tipped from the edge and shattered when the first car raced by. It was closely followed by another, and so the new day began.

A tall building that rose from its surroundings like a pillar elevated amongst waves of sand blocking the rays of the sun and casting a dark shadow in its midst. Inside, this building was no more alive than the world around it, save for the staff of medics that were burdened with nightshifts. Sleepy as they were, they all continued to busy themselves with quiet work. It was all they could do to prevent themselves from falling into slumber like the patients the resided under their care. At the desk of the second floor, the intensive care unit, a nurse clothed in the standard white uniform sat typing at a computer with a stony look upon her tired face. She was not a young woman, but she was not by any means old; closer to middle-aged, really. But with the darkened bags that ran under her eyes, her pale face, and her thins lips set into a straight and solemn line, she appeared to be so much older. Perhaps it was the emotionally draining consequences of her work? 

She had willfully worked in the ICU of the hospital for eleven years, and had seen more than her fair share of miraculous recoveries, as well as tragic deaths. Sometimes a patient would come into her ward with little more than a hope and prayer of living, would undergo the decisive surgery, and would then be able to return to a normal life after rehabilitation. But for every success, it seemed like there was an equal, or even greater, failure. These failures were the very thing that weighed down her already tired soul the most.  She had entered into the medical field in order to help people, but when you couldn't do anything to save those entrusted to you… Like when a man would be rushed in after a severe accident and would die shortly after surgery, or when an older woman would die of a stroke, even if the surgery went well. Sometimes, it was necessary to acknowledge the fact that you couldn't save everyone, it was necessary to give up. All these things pained her soul, as they would for anyone, but even this was not what plagued her heart the most.

The undoubtedly worst consequence of her profession was being forced to attend to young people when those times occurred- children that didn't have the slightest chance of surviving. It was like watching a flower bud wither and die, never having had the chance of living their promising lives at all, none the less to its fullest. It was easier to accept that an aged person passed on, or even an adult, but to have to tell expectant parents that their child was dead left a careening abyss of guilt in the soul. It was never her fault that they died, though, it was her fault that she could never let go. Sighing heavily, she turned her worn gray eyes away from the computer screen to the impersonal aluminum-framed clock hanging on the equally impersonal wall.

It was 5:33.

She sighed again, using her arms to push herself away from the desk. A wheel on the chair let out a small squeak as she rolled it backwards, but in the quiet of the hallway, it was deafening. She winced, hoping that the noise hadn't disturbed anyone's slumber, but then berated herself. The only person who could possibly be awake at this time were the other hospital staff members, and the patient that she had gotten up to attend to. He was a young and precariously quiet boy who's life seemed to be stretched out like rice paper soaked with rain. He had never wronged her or lashed out at her, but she hated taking care of him, or even seeing him. You see, this boy had been in the same room of the intensive care unit for over three years, and instead of getting better, he always seemed to be getting gradually worse. The doctors couldn't even begin to diagnose any sort of disease even after all this time because all the tests they ran for the plausible sicknesses came out negative. It was as if the child was fated to die, despite anything that modern medicine could offer. To make matters worse, the boy was the only child of a rich and powerful family, hence the only heir. However, it was rumored that the family's bloodline was cursed with some sort of disease from a demon, killing some of the family members in unusual and inexplicable ways.  

She wasn't superstitious, and it was only a rumor, but nothing else could explain it. She pitied the boy and felt more sympathy towards him than anyone else she had ever known, but she hated doing anything involving his treatment, primarily because he had no appropriate "treatment". All these procedures were only a way to prolong his life, which was already failing miserably. She unlocked the door to the medicine storage room, absently making her way to the freezer that held the boy's medicine. She didn't need to pay attention to her actions anymore when it came to this; it was always the exact same thing day in and day out. She would unlock the room, get the same type package out of the same cooler, string it on the metal rack, and walk to the boy's room. There, she would stare at the door for a minute before rapping on it lightly with her knuckles and then enter, saying: "Kurosaki-san, it's time for your medicine."

He used to acknowledge her presence in the room with a slight nod in her general direction, but hadn't done so for nearly a year now. She had heard that it had something to do with his stepmother scolding him on his sixteenth birthday, telling him that he was a murderer, that the only reason that he was even alive now was because his father needed an heir. She had said numerous cruel things to the boy- had even called him a monster- and all he had done-- all he could do-- was stare at her, wide-eyed. After that, though, Kurosaki-san had become even more distant than he already was and seemed to have lost any will he may have had to live. And thus, the nurse found herself in front of the heavy wooden once again, metal rack in one hand and the other held stilly next to the door. Casting her tired eyes downwards, she gathered her strength and rapped on the door.

"Kurosaki-san, it's time for your medicine," she stated monotonously, reaching down, grasping the worn handle, turning it, and then pushing the door open. 

She breathed a sigh of relief to see that the boy was asleep for once, since he was usually awakened by her quiet introduction. Walking over swiftly to the side of his bed, she detached the empty bag and replaced it with the new one, watching for a moment to ensure that the drops were falling as they should. Satisfied that everything was in place, she turned her head to steal a quick glance at the slumbering boy in the room. His skin was deftly pale, making the comparison of him to rice paper even more realistic, but his cheeks were constantly tinted pinkish-red. It was due to the fever that wouldn't abandon its grasp on his fragile body, and it accented the ghostly white of his skin even more. It reminded her of an unfinished painting that the artist has lost interest in, leaving the canvas as a chalky sketch with only a streak of red to exaggerate what would have been the face. It was really quite sad…

Incessant beeping brought her out of her silent reverie. She looked up, her eyes locating the heart monitor that was loudly chiming, and for good reason. Kurosaki's pulse had dropped drastically, his heart beating only about twenty times a minute, and quickly declining.

"Kurosaki-san! Kurosaki-san!" she cried in alarm, placing a hand on his thin shoulder in attempt to rouse him. 

When she released him, however, his frame just seemed to sink further into the bed. Her own face paled and she fled the room, forgetting the empty bag left on the tray as she ran to the nurses' station to issue an emergency call to all paramedics available. Within less than a minute, Kurosaki's previously silent room was alive with commotion, eight doctors and nurses managing to squeeze into the small chamber. In the rush of the moment, it would have been impossible to list all the attempts to revive the boy. After an hour a failed efforts, the team of medics stood quietly over the unconscious body, some silently filing out of the room since they didn't want to be present when the teenager finally passed on from this world of pain.

Kurosaki's parents had been informed within minutes of the nurse's alert to the rest of the nurses and doctors, and had arrived a little less than thirty minutes after the call. One would predict them to be rather flustered or upset by the situation, but neither showed any signs of distress. Kurosaki's father stood tall and silent, his lips tightly sealed and making no request to see his son. His stepmother looked more smug than anything else; she actually appeared to be somehow amused to hear that her stepson's death was drawing near. But she remained equally silent, latching on to her husband's arm like the lecherous woman she was. Despite the powerful aristocrat making no demands to see his only child, he was shown to the cramped room that was still at the time abuzz with activity. 

Kurosaki Nagare waited patiently outside the hospital room, true to his dignified upbringing, until some of the doctors and nurses quietly excused themselves from the room. He then entered with his wife, who was still looking smug with herself, and they both looked upon the helpless figure of the boy laying limply on the bed. For the situation, his breath was coming to him at a surprisingly calm rate. The heart monitor's alarm had been shut off and the doctors had fallen silent upon the entrance of the pair. The room's tense silence was heavy, weighing down on the nervous hospital workers like a yoke upon an ox. Nagare looked away from his son, allowing his emerald-green eyes to study the distraught faces of those left in the room.

"He's dying?" Nagare confirmed, his cold eyes practically boring a hole through the man that he presumed to be the head doctor. 

He swallowed nervously before answering, "His pulse has dropped much too low to sustain him for much longer, and his body temperature his rocketed. We can't locate the source of these problems, however, and his breathing is light but normal…"

This was all that the intimidated doctor managed to squeak out, partially because he was not willing to hazard any more and also that Kurosaki Nagare's glare had become more acute. But then something most unprecedented occurred. Nagare carefully freed his arm from his wife's demanding hold and approached the hospital bed, leaning over the pale youth and grasping his slender shoulders tightly. He shook him gently at first, as if attempting to wake him from a catnap, but the yanks became fiercer. Nagare's frustration was quickly rising, being evident in the way his brow creased and his striking eyes narrowed.

"Wake up, Hisoka. Hisoka. Open your eyes. Hisoka!" he began, gradually raising his voice until it became nothing short if a shout. 

Instead of becoming aware of his surroundings, however, the boy was engulfed in a wave of what was assumed to be pain. His eyebrows knitted together and his eyes squeezed closed tighter. His lips cracked open, allowing the rushes of air to pass easily as his breathing became erratic and stifled. A faint cry of pain escaped him, even though he appeared to be making a sincere effort to remain quiet before his father even in his oblivious state. Hisoka exhaled loudly, it being short and labored. This worried the doctors, gently trying to intercede by telling Nagare that whatever he was doing was causing the boy more pain than comfort. Hisoka's air continued to come in gasps and uneven pants, but, as unwilling as the medics would be to admit it, this pain might have been the very thing that he needed to regain consciousness. 

Hisoka's pale fingers dug into the sheets, clenching them tightly, and his stepmother smirked.

"Little monster," she whispered under her breath, being fully aware of what Nagare was doing to her sister's child. 

Nagare continued to shake the boy, his anger intensifying until it appeared that his son was actually responding to the strong emotion.  A hush fell over the paramedics when Hisoka's eyes began to flinch. His pulse had leaped up with the touch of Nagare, more than likely matching his father's for a reason that was lost to the professionals. Finally, eyes of identical green met. Hisoka was gazing up cautiously at his father, though evidently the action did invoke a great deal of pain. His lips moved, suggesting that he was attempting to speak, but was having difficulty forming the words. He tried again, but no voice aided him. His father's frustration grew, his hands tightening on his son, and it was on the third try directly thereafter that Hisoka was able to find the strength to speak. The words were little more than a forced whisper, but everyone present had heard them as clearly as if they had been clearly spoken at a normal volume.

"Don't touch me."

Nagare gasped, his eyes widening at his son's blunt plea. His taught hands fell slack and Hisoka sank back into the bed, his eyes rolling back in his head as he returned to unconsciousness as if nothing had ever happened. His heart rate plummeted down lower than it had been before the encounter, but didn't simply remain beating at the low level that the staff had managed to stabilize before. Instead, it declined until only a few weak beats per minute were displayed on the monitor. Being aware that they could do no more, the remaining doctors and nurses quietly exited the room, still in shock from Hisoka's haunting command. He had told his own father not to touch him- what kind of child was this? Regardless, they left the room and closed the door behind them with a soft, yet firm, click. Very few actually left the hallway outside, however, intent on eavesdropping on the surprisingly normally toned voices coming from within.

"Your emotions hurt him, you know. He's suffering even more because of you," a female voice declared haughtily, taking a delight in whatever pain Nagare might have been experiencing.

"It was the only thing that would reach him, and then he tells me not to touch him. He's rejected his own father…"

"Your way of reaching him hurt him. Can't you see that? Humph… After three years of making us wait, the little monster really is going to die. It's about time, I'd say."

"You have no place to speak, woman. This boy is my heir. No matter how cursed he is, he is the only one who could carry on the family bloodline, but you celebrate the fact that he's near death. Without him, my brother will inherit my fortune and will leave you with nothing. Are your spirits dampened yet, and or need I go on?"

"… Forgive me…"

A constant, high-pitched beep resounded from the room, while some nurses cupped a hand over their mouths and others gasped in shock. The only doctor among them tightened his jaw, determined to remain emotionless by the death of the young boy. But any hopes that they might have had to not dissolve into tears were crushed when they heard the desperate words piercing through the heavy door again.

"Hisoka. Hisoka! Open your eyes, boy! Hisoka!!"

The nurse who had stumbled upon his condition just an hour ago retreated from the scene, walking quickly as she wiped the rapidly forming tears away. Wandering into the lobby of the floor, she stopped in front of a window to the outside where the sun had just barely risen.

'Ironic,' she mused sadly. 'How can it be the dawn of a new day when the sun has just set on the life of a child? How can accursed this day be so unrightfully beautiful?'

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

So, how was it? Good? Bad? Indifferent? Don't know, don't care? Seriously! Let me know what you think! I personally believe that the story is off to a good start.  I really made an effort to make this story original and I've never stumbled across something with a plot close to the one this fic will develop, although the first chapter was kind of... depressing. Before I get off topic, though,  I should probably stop ranting. Thanks so much for reading a please review! I'd really appreciate any comments you have to offer!

-Kaen ^^


	2. But a Circle Goes On Forever

Learn to Live Again  
  
Chapter Two: But a Circle Goes On Forever  
  
By Kaen  
  
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What a strange feeling it is, to breathe a final breath and know that the simple action of respiration is no longer necessary. There was no reason to open your eyes, no reason to speak a word. Reaching out for help was trivial, so why bother to lift a finger? No one would answer you anyway. Your heart stops pounding, you can feel it. It's like it knows that its labors are as trivial as any other attempt you might make to live. And when you expect the angels to rush out and embrace you, sweeping you to heaven's gate in gentle arms, you are greeted with darkness; a frigid sort of darkness, the type you feel on a damp winter night when the moon hides its face behind a mask of clouds and even the stars are reluctant to shine.  
  
The low-drifting fogs cling to your body fervently, piercing your skin with its unseen needles of ice while it, at the same time, whispers, "It is all right. I've come to you because you've called to me. Dry your tears, for you are not lonely. I am now here, and I will always be here to strangle your happiness and crush your hope. So it's all right, dry your tears."  
  
And you don't cry. You don't even blink. All you can do is stare into the nothingness, frozen in time, as the wicked dark wretches your naked body, twisting your limbs and clenching your neck in its hands of ice. If you needed to breathe, you surely wouldn't be able to.  
  
But you don't need to breathe, do you?  
  
No, but if you did, the malicious emotions coursing through your body would be enough to freeze the air in you lungs. A rampant river rages through the flesh, flooding every sense and exposing every wound. Every sin, every heartbreak, every day spent alone was given new life as it rose from a grave that it had been violently shoved into.  
  
'What a frightening child. It's like he can see into our thoughts.'  
  
No.  
  
'He is not my son!'  
  
Please, God, no.  
  
'Monster! Demon!'  
  
Please, stop.  
  
//I will not stop," replies the being that is tearing your soul away. "I shall ravage you mind and heart until it no longer entices, and when your body is left cracked and broken, I will abandon you. And you will miss me, because when I am gone, you will never know greater suffering. Suffering that comes from solitude, alone in a frozen world trapped in a perpetual midnight of utter silence. You will cry out, but no sound shall come forth. Nothing can shatter the depth of the moment, not even your cold blood that strikes the ground as you search for a way to escape, taking your inexistent life over and over again.//  
  
I don't understand.  
  
//You are one of those selfish souls that cling desperately to what little humanity you may have left, refusing to accept what you might become. You will never know greater shame or pain. And when you wish to end this life of misery, you will find that you cannot. Though a dagger may slice your thin neck and cut away your heart, you shall not cease to live. But you shall never live, so how can you kill something that was never there?//  
  
I don't understand you, and I am afraid. What am I becoming?  
  
//Why do you wish to become him?//  
  
Who? I don't understand. What are you asking me?  
  
//Why do you grasp so firmly the life of your desolation? Why do you desire to exist as a shadow in a world that is a mere reflection to the world you once knew?//  
  
I don't know and I don't understand! Aren't I dead? Who are you? Why am I here?  
  
Silence answered. He felt the choking encirclement loosen, fading away into the darkness. He found himself reaching to the cold, but it fell just beyond his fingertips. He wanted it back. Whatever it was had manipulated his lonely heart in ways that fell nothing short of sinister, and Hisoka desired nothing more to hear those harsh words and revel in those cold arms once again. But now he was alone, silence's impending weight falling heavily over his ears. The more he strained them to become aware of any noise, the desolate the realm became.  
  
I'm alone. You left me alone. You lied to me. Please, come back and break me.  
  
"I am. an angel of death."  
  
Where did that come from? Who am I? Is it true?  
  
"Shinigami."  
  
The word echoed in his mind, screaming and at the same time not being heard. It was then that whatever strand on consciousness still existed thinned and frayed, snapping violently as the boy plummeted helplessly to a world that was as foreign to him as a feeling of belonging.  
  
_________________________________________________________________  
  
A tall man in an orderly brown suit stood impassively at the front of the room, his piercing cobalt eyes narrowed dangerously behind the frames of his glasses. His arms were folded across his chest as the fingers of his right hand drummed across left arm slowly, his aura transmitting a chillingly calm patience as his mouth was drawn into a thin line. His eyes were boring a hole through the door as if daring it to open, revealing the guilty face of a man who was either habitually late or failing to even show up.  
  
"Eh. Tatsumi-san, I think we should just start without Tsuzuki-san. We've been waiting for nearly half an hour," a man with disheveled wavy blonde hair suggested, his brown eyes glinting with nervousness behind his own rounded frames.  
  
"Tsuzuki-san is. truly remarkable. Watari, have you met anyone so absentminded? Honestly, that man-"  
  
"Let's just begin, Tatsumi-san," Kanoe interrupted, his annoyance even more apparent than Tatsumi's by the way that his left eye would twitch every once in a while and the sharp tone that his gruff voice carried. "I'm sure that Tsuzuki will eventually be informed of what was discussed."  
  
Tatsumi sighed and nodded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the middle finger of his right hand. Leaning over to open a manila-colored folder, he began shuffling through a few papers before settling on the order to begin with. The younger Gushoushin hovered quietly behind him as he peered curiously over Tatsumi's broad shoulders while pondering how quiet the room seemed with only the three of them. Actually, he was almost certain that more Shinigami had been requested to attend this meeting, but the lack of Tsuzuki's whining and energy left a hallow spot on the conference room.  
  
Clearing his throat to regain the attention of everyone present, Tatsumi announced, "As you all may or may not be aware of, Tsuzuki is in need of a new partner. Asuka/Himura Masaki had failed to cut all his ties with the human world and has interfered with the live of his cousin, whom he had initially given his life for six years before. While he is repeating his training, we are forced to locate another partner who can tolera- eh, work well with Tsuzuki."  
  
A faint snicker rose from Watari's side of the table, telling Tatsumi that his slip of words hadn't gone unnoticed by the self-declared chemist.  
  
"In conclusion," Tatsumi attempted to amend, casting a weary glance at Watari. "I will personally set to work trying to locate a new person, but I would prefer to not do so independently. Kanoe-Kachou, I would appreciate it if you would mention this situation to the Earl at you next meeting and ask him if he has noticed anything unusual in his mansion recently that could work to our advantage."  
  
Kanoe-Kachou nodded in approval, his eyes lowered and his mouth firmly shut as he sat in the office chair. He was apparently still brooding over the fact that Tsuzuki had failed to make an appearance at the meeting that resolved only around his present circumstances regarding a partner. The sweets that often accompanied Tsuzuki to meetings absence also grated on his nerves.  
  
Tatsumi's lecture droned on, finally ending about ten minutes later. Watari leapt up out of his chair, 003 giving a hoot of protest when her perch on the energetic man's shoulder suddenly became very difficult to balance upon. She hopped off his shoulder and took to flight, darting after her owner out the door and down the hall. Tatsumi watched the scientist go, his lab coat and hair fluttering haphazardly behind him as he practically skipped back to his lab. The secretary stared, wide-eyed, but profanely refused to allow himself to ponder the motives that Watari had possessed was for returning to his "work" so. happily.  
  
A firm hand clamped on his shoulder brought Tatsumi out of his reverie. He glanced at Kanoe-Kachou's equally disapproving face and was reassured to know that wasn't the only one who found Watari to be quite eccentric at times. Returning Tatsumi's gaze after Watari had turned the corner, Kanoe nodded slightly, released his grip, and began the walk back to his office at the end of the hall, followed by the hovering chicken deity, leaving Tatsumi alone in the frame of the doorway. He remained there for a minute, lost in quiet contemplation, before he traversed the length of the conference table to collect his report. Stacking the documents neatly within the folder again, he closed it and settled it loosely in the palm of his right hand. Straightening his back, he took in a deep breath and released it a few seconds later, allowing his thoughts to drift to memories of Tsuzuki no that he was alone in the room.  
  
It was true that he and Tsuzuki had shared more than a partnership in business for a little while. But it'd been three years since the man who presently served as the secretary of EnmaCho's Shokan division had ended his alliance with Tsuzuki on circumstances that neither may have understood at the time. When you distance yourself from a person, however, it becomes much more obvious the reason that you couldn't stand to be with them. It never comes down to the pretense of a lack of affection, it comes down to the inability to handle the guilt. It's too much of a strain, and it tears at your soul. Never before Tsuzuki had Tatsumi even imagined that such darkness could exist in a person's heart, let alone one so generally cheerful.  
  
But scars don't lie. The feeling of drowning in guilt can't be mistaken. Love wasn't supposed to be the iron ball chained around your ankles that dragged you to the bottom of a blackened pool of blood, where even the light of the surface couldn't be distinguished from the misery. Love was supposed to heal old wounds, not rip them open anew and smoother them with salt. That's why it could never work. Tsuzuki couldn't even live with himself or be brave enough to battle the shame plaguing with soul. How could Tatsumi love a person who hated themselves? Was it supposed to be Tatsumi's job to protect him from the demons in his mind? If it was, then he certainly wasn't strong enough to do it. The person who could save Tsuzuki would have to be a person with no heart to be crushed and if such a person even existed, how could they be able love?  
  
It really was such a trivial game, love was; a silly, trying and pointless game that went round and round in a circle, never getting anywhere, no matter how frantically you try to break the circle. Tatsumi had heard an old saying once that told you that if you truly loved someone, you should draw their name in a circle instead of a heart because hearts can be broken but a circle goes on forever. Wasn't it ironic how this circle of true love was the one thing you suddenly began trying to break, something that you desired to shatter above everything else? You try to escape it, but the force of the affection is maddening. You feel your mind on the brink of collapse and what you cannot fill with passion you fill with pain.  
  
The soul will harbor these suffocating feelings and they will thrive within you, forcing out every bit of logic and every humane thought you ever possessed. All that exists is a galling need for the pleasure or the pain, but the line between the two becomes blurred and eventually ceases to exist. You fall into sleep at night and awake in a cold sweat with your breath coming to you raggedly, but the nightmare means nothing to you. The reality of your life has become crueler, so why should a mere dream affect you? And when you're finally at the brink of insanity and all you feel like doing is smiling at the remorse that plagues you, something snaps within and you realize that it's /his/ fault. /He/ is the one who drags you through hell and back. You love him, but you hate him. You want to help him, but can't escape becoming him.  
  
And the last thing that you can do to save yourself. is to abandon him. No, a lack of affection certainly wasn't the problem, to use an understatement. But if that's the only thing that other people could handle, let them think that. They've never drowned like you have and you pray that they never would. After all, only a heartless person like you could even begin to recover from the shock. Yes, heartless is what you become. Your soul is so devastated by the darkness that it felt than ran deeper than anything you could ever fathom so it could never open to anyone again. You know that they all are not him, but you're terrified that you might feel that same pull again. Oh, that's strange. How he had gotten back to his office without realizing that he left the conference room? Well, no bother. He was there and no one had been injured in the process, so he assumed that it was all right.  
  
Sighing heavily, he closed the door to his office behind him as he entered and crossed the small room, settling into the swivel chair as he laid his folder on top of a neatly organized pile of papers. Wait, what was the paper on top of the others? Tatsumi slid the folder to the left and picked up what appeared to be a report. Upon closer inspection, he assumed that it was probably a new case. Paper-clipped on top of the rest of the papers was a four inch by four inch photo of a young boy, maybe in his early teens, with large green eyes and sandy-blonde bangs that hung messily over his brow. He had a small build, making him look rather feminine. If it weren't for the suit he wore, Tatsumi would've probably guessed the person in the picture was a girl.  
  
He curiously angled the picture to the side and glanced at the text. The boys name was Kurosaki Hisoka, born October 18th, blah, blah, blah. So where's the case report? Flipping to the next page, he began skimming the text looking for some indicator of what the Shinigami would be investigating and who would be doing it. No such data appeared, until he reached the third page and a particular line caught his attention. ".died July 7th of this year of an incurable disease at age sixteen." Ah, so they were supposed to look into what killed the boy, find his spirit, and bring him to Meifu, right? Oh? What now? ".possesses a high level of spiritual energy, empathetic abilities, and is trained is traditional Japanese fighting arts."?  
  
The present tense? But isn't Kurosaki dead? His brow creasing in bewilderment, Tatsumi flipped back to the first page and read the first couple of lines. According to this, Kurosaki was to become. a Shinigami? How'd this information get to him so quickly? It didn't matter at the moment, Tatsumi decided, as he pushed himself out his chair and exited his office quickly, making his way down the hall to his boss's office with long quick strides, the report clenched tightly in hand. And so it came to pass that Watari had for some reason felt the urge to spring out of his lab in a flustered mess, colliding into Tatsumi and taking him to the floor with him.  
  
"Hit the deck!" Watari cried, squirming off Tatsumi, grabbing the other man's arm, and dragging him away from the doorway.  
  
Tatsumi's eyes were wide with confusion that was tinted by the fear that Watari would blow the Shokan division building to smithereens. It's not like it was improbable. True to his warning, however, a violent poof of grayish-green smoke emerged from the lab, accompanied by a loud boom that signaled the downfall of what was likely to be all of Watari's laboratory equipment. Smoke continued to vent out of the door and into the hallway as both Watari and Tatsumi looked on wide-eyed. Somehow, Watari had managed to crawl in Tatsumi's lap and had thrown his arms around his neck much like a damsel in distress would've done. Tatsumi's thought proceeded in this order: explosion, smoke, lost money, people staring, Watari sitting on me, my suit is dirty.  
  
"Get off me," Tatsumi prompted, attempting to distance himself from the shell-shocked scientist.  
  
Watari compliantly stood up, offering a hand down to help Tatsumi up as 003 flews laps around her master's head. She was evidently about as pleased about the situation as Tatsumi was and her loud hoots were berating Watari with her own special words. Usually the penny-pinching secretary would have been quite distressed over the situation (since lab equipment wasn't exactly cheap and the chemist went through a lot of it), but these were not normal circumstances. He needed to go talk to Kanoe-Kachou quickly, and- Oh shit, where did the folder go? He wearily looked to the fumes, which were considerably dense.  
  
"What happened now?" an irritated voice penetrated the silence that had fallen over the workers of EnmaCho. "Watari, were you working on that damned gender-changing potion again?"  
  
"No." the blonde man looked away, directing his eyes to the ceiling.  
  
"Kanoe-Kachou!" Tatsumi approached his boss, hundreds of questions weighting down his mind. He began by simply asking, "Why wasn't I informed in advance about Kurosaki-san?"  
  
"Who?" Kanoe looked at Tatsumi like he'd just sprouted antennas.  
  
"Kurosaki Hisoka! The report left on my desk!" Tatsumi tried to clarify, his anxiety rising.  
  
"I don't know who you're talking about."  
  
"He's a boy with big green eyes and blonde hair! There was a report with a photo left on my desk when I returned from the meeting. Who is he?" Tatsumi stated, his voice staying surprisingly calm.  
  
"Oh, that new case? I got it in yesterday right before I left for home. I just put it on your desk to review. Is there some problem with it?" Kanoe- Kachou answered now that he had the slightest clue what his coworker was talking about.  
  
"Yes, there is something interesting about it. This isn't a new case, the boy is to become a Shinigami!"  
  
"What?!" Both Kanoe and Watari squawked in unison. Tatsumi looked at Watari quizzically, wondering why the matter involved the ash-dusted scientist.  
  
"Watari-san?" Tatsumi questioned.  
  
"I just saw that kid! A teenage girly boy with blonde hair, right? Kind of small?" Watari sputtered as he barely contained his excitement. "I saw someone new in the infirmary a couple of minutes before when I was getting some coffee. I just assumed he was a victim or something, but-"  
  
"-He's already here?!" It was the shadow master's turn to gape. Watari nodded solemnly. Well, it looks like it's off to the infirmary. Why was Tatsumi always left out of the loop?  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Oh, a cliffhanger! Not really, but hey! I'm not very fond of this chapter. It was so technical with the business meeting, but I suppose it does have some parts I enjoyed writing. I'm sure you'll be able to tell which. ^^ Anyway, since you made it this far, I would really appreciate it if you'd review! Reviews are so encouraging for me as an author, so if you like the story so far, please let me know! Thanks so much for reading!  
  
-Kaen ^^ 


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